He hated the moon, and he loved it. It reminded him of too many things long lost, but the memories were bittersweet things. Something to warm the night, something to remind him of better ones, filled with more than warmth, filled with heat that made the air almost too heavy to breathe.

Freedom was a fickle thing. Years had gone by when he’d dreamed of feeling the sun’s warm rays on his face, the sharp kiss of northern winds stinging his lips. His mind was free to wander, to dream whatever dreams remained, while his body stayed locked behind cold, hard walls.

Sirius gazed up at the moon, lost in wishes for the past. Though he’d won his freedom, tenuous as it was, he’d always be trapped in his dreams.